


heartstrings

by canvases (oilpaints)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 22:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10626081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oilpaints/pseuds/canvases
Summary: Shirabu is an ex-pianist trying to get through school and live a quiet life. Semi is a wannabe musician who happens to perfom at the café Shirabu works at, and with him, he brings a whole lot of noise.Together, they make an unexpected duet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for a [song challenge](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=6B9J3lEyffA) with the wonderful [safyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily). we thought it would be interesting to pick a song, write a fic for it, and see the results we wind up with. you can find her fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716273)! 
> 
> i don’t know anything about cafés or music, so i took some liberties with that. i’m so sorry and i hope you enjoy!

At eight years old, Shirabu is long used to waking up to the sound of music winding it’s way through the household, and this morning is no different.

The silvery notes coax his bedroom door open, and his fingers trail along the railing as he steps down the stairs as carefully as the way his mother plucks her piano’s keys. He wouldn’t want to interrupt her concentration with the sound of a step creaking, after all.

The last note resonates throughout the house just as he hops off the last step. Shirabu smiles faintly and claps his hands.

His mother glances up, and Shirabu watches as her lips stretch along her pearly teeth when she says, “Good morning, Kenjiro,” and pats the bench she’s sitting on. He pads along and settles himself next to her, eyeing the keys with interest.

“Have you been practicing your finger patterns?”

“Of course I have,” he says eagerly, fingers itching to pluck out each ivory key one by one.

His mother smiles and folds her hands on her lap. “Let’s hear it, then,” she says softly, nodding towards the piano.

He’s used to stumbling his way through songs, each note loud and thundering, but lately, his instructor has been teaching him otherwise. He glides his way through the keys with an elegance he’s still trying to sharpen. He lets each note sparkle before moving onto the next, trying to get them all to blend in like his mother does, and lets the song trail off towards the end.

He blows his hair out of his face when he’s done, drawing his hands back.

“That was beautiful, Kenjiro.” His mother’s eyes are twinkling with pride as she tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “I can start making you breakfast, but what do you say I teach you something new later this afternoon?”

Shirabu licks his lips, because the thought is tempting, but he has other plans. “Maybe tomorrow,” he offers, twisting the hem of his shirt. “I promised my friends that I’d go out and play volleyball with them.”

“Alright, then,” she says, ruffling his hair. “But you need to eat something, first. You need energy to play, right?”

“ _Right,”_  he echoes, staring at his fingers. “Right.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Wrong,_ ” Kawanishi says, shaking his head. “Give me that, I’ll tune it.”

Shirabu huffs, shoving the guitar in his arms back at him. “I can’t even play the damned thing,” he says. “Anyway, we’re both on our shift, you can leave that untuned until someone comes along and needs it.”

Kawanishi raises an eyebrow, glancing around the empty café. “I don’t see anything better to do,” he mutters, glancing back down at the instrument in his hands. “Besides, it’s Monday.”

“I’m aware,” Shirabu says, leaning back against a wall as he waits for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, going back to messing with the strings of the guitar. Shirabu sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t break that, it’s the only spare we have.”

“I won’t. Yamagata-san’s going to need this later.”

 _It’s Monday._ Shirabu groans, eyes flickering to the stage tucked into a corner of the shop. _Treble Clef_ is a café known for several things, like it’s donuts, and the fact that it allows people to share their music on tnat very stage.

Shirabu has nothing against Yamagata—he plays the guitar and the drums on Monday mornings and Saturday afternoons—but he usually plays original songs with Semi Eita on Mondays, and, well, Shirabu has _everything_ against Semi Eita.

“I don’t know what you have against Semi-san, honestly,” Kawanishi says. “He’s a good guy, and he makes great music.”

“Whether or not he’s a good guy is _debatable,_ and I don’t care much about music.”

Kawanishi snorts, and his eyes gleam with amusement under the dim lighting of the store. “What are you doing in a music café, then?”

“It pays the bills, alright,” Shirabu says, rubbing his index finger with his thumb. “I’m a college student, what else can I do?”

Kawanishi doesn’t say anything, plucking each guitar string slowly. The notes resonate in the silence, and Shirabu feels each ring in his ears. “There we go,” he says softly, patting the guitar. “I’ll go set this up on the stage, you take your place behind the counter. It’s already half past seven, so the regulars should start coming in any second now.”

“Who died and made you my boss?” Shirabu asks to his retreating back, but he huffs and heads to the counter, anyway. He watches the empty couches and their plush pillows start to get filled one by one as the customers start to stream in. He takes their orders and Kawanishi makes the drinks, and they fall into their usual rhythm.

When the morning rush starts to die down, he slumps against the counter and eyes the abstract paintings on the wall warily. “I never understood what that one meant,” he says aloud, pointing at the orange canvas splattered in blue paint. “It looks like something I could’ve made when I was seven.”

Kawanishi snorts, walking over to pat his head condescendingly. “Don’t judge art,” he says sagely. “You’re just being bitter because of all the work you’ve had to do lately. Leave the paintings alone.”

“I’m just saying,” Shirabu protests. “Orange and blue aren’t even a nice color combination—”

“They’re on opposite ends of the color wheel, if that helps. Complementary colors, or something.”

Shirabu turns away from Kawanishi to meet a familiar pair of cocoa eyes. He briefly contemplates slamming his head on the counter, but he shoves that idea aside for later. “Good morning, Semi-san,” he hears himself say, “can I help you with anything?”

“Nothing, just letting you know that Hayato and I are going to start setting up, now,” he answers, smiling slightly in greeting.

“I never knew you were interested in art,” Shirabu says dryly, turning around to see that Kawanishi has disappeared. As expected of him.

Semi shrugs. “I mean, music is an art form, isn’t it?”

Shirabu opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off by a yell of, “Eita, c’mon, help me out here!” Semi’s head snaps towards Yamagata, who’s waving at him wildly from the stage, and he rolls his eyes before making his way over to him.

Shirabu watches him as he goes, and he clicks his tongue. Kawanishi slides in next to him, the corner of his lip twitching.

“I hate you,” Shirabu says out loud, unsure of who exactly he’s talking to.

Kawanishi’s smirk subdues into a lazy grin, and he rests an elbow on the counter. “I had to help Yamagata-san setup the microphones,” he says innocently. “Apparently they’re doing covers today.”

“I never asked.”

He shrugs. “Just thought I’d say. I know you like Semi-san’s original stuff. You’ve been humming—”

Shirabu glares. “Shut up and get me the bitterest cup of coffee you can brew.”

 

* * *

 

Shirabu takes a sip of his black coffee, watching as Semi nods his head along to the beat of his song, the low light setting his faded blonde hair aglow.

“ _P_ _lease,_ ” Kawanishi says, tossing a handful of sugar packets in his direction. One hits his cheek and falls to the floor. “Stop being a bitter piece of shit and save yourself the pain of drinking that.”

Shirabu rolls his eyes. “Black coffee has it’s health benefits, Taichi,” he plucks one of the packets and throws it at his face. “You should try it sometime.”

Kawanishi pulls a face, running his hands through his hair and turning it even messier. “I’ll pass, thanks,” he says, dryly.

He throws another sugar packet at his face. “Get back to work, Taichi.”

“Tell that to yourself,” Kawanishi says, resting his elbow on the counter. “Unless you get paid to ogle at the musicians.”

“I’m not ogling at anyone,” Shirabu snaps. “I don’t ogle.”

“Right,” he says, eyes flickering to the stage, where Yamagata is strumming his guitar, but the spotlight is on Semi, who’s grinning brightly as he sings along to the tune. “Anyway,” he says, turning back to Shirabu. “Ogle _._ It’s such a weird word. Ogle _._ Hey, say that ten times fast.”

“Please shut up,” Shirabu groans, shoving him back in the direction of the coffee machines. “Get back to work.”

“I wasn’t the one ogling—”

“Work!” Shirabu yells, throwing another sugar packet at him.

Kawanishi mutters a _yes, boss_ under his breath, but he heads back to tinkering with the coffee machines anyway, just in time for several girls to come in. He sighs and waits for them to finish their debate over which coffee tastes best, politely ignores their attempts at flirting with him, and finally gets their order. All in all, it goes back to being a normal day of work.

“Hey.”

Shirabu glances up to see Semi. A quick glance at the clock tells him that their designated performance time is up. “Hello,” he nods, eyes flitting to the door briefly, hoping that another set of customers come. He’d rather deal with girls asking for his number than _this_. At least he knows how to deal with _that_. “Can I get you anything, Semi-san?”

Semi nods. “One espresso to go,” he says. “I’m tired of instant coffee.”

While Semi pays for his order, Shirabu writes down his name and, after a moment of hesitation, he adds a small note: _instant coffee usually tastes better with a bit of butter or some cocoa powder._

Fiddling with a strand of hair, Shirabu hands his cup over. Semi raises an eyebrow at all the words written along the side, but he looks up and flashes Shirabu a smile as warm as freshly-brewed coffee. “You have really nice handwriting,” he comments, adjusting the strap of his guitar case on his shoulder. “See you on Thursday?”

“Obviously,” Shirabu says. “You signed up for playing on Thursday afternoons.”

“For someone who’s supposed to be smart, you’re really dumb,” Kawanishi says, watching as they both leave the store, laughing amongst themselves. “I don’t get why you hate him. He just wants you to like him.”

“Who said anything about hate?”

Kawanishi rolls his eyes. “You’ve hated him since day one. Just because he spilled coffee all over you. That was months ago, by the way.”

“ _P_ _iping hot_ coffee,” Shirabu corrects. “And he didn’t even apologize.”

“He still helped you dry up. In his defense, you can get really intimidating when you’re pissed.”

“Whatever.” Shirabu rolls his eyes. “And I don’t hate him. I don’t.”

Kawanishi raises an eyebrow, leaning against the pastry display and crossing his legs at the ankles. “Probably not _hate_ , then,” he says. “But you thought he was an asshole, he turned out to be really nice, and you hate being wrong.”

“Since when were you my therapist?” he snaps, tucking his hair behind his ear. “I’m not that petty, Taichi.”

Kawanishi has both eyebrows raised, now. Shirabu flicks a plastic spoon at his forehead.

“He’s not petty, he says,” Kawanishi mutters, watching the spoon as it clatters onto the ground. “Not petty, my ass.”

 

* * *

 

They always come in early on Tuesdays so that they have time to set up the electric piano they keep tucked away in the storage room. Shirabu likes Tuesdays because he gets to hear the familiar notes float through the shop.

“Can you check the sound?” Kawanishi calls, plugging in the wire.

Shirabu flinches, but he nods, settling himself on a chair. Feeling light-headed, he taps a random key several times. It rings loud and clear in the empty store. He exhales. Most of the lights are still off, and he can just barely make out the shape of each key. He may have stopped playing, but his fingers still know where to go.

He stumbles his way through an old song he wrote, mouth twisting into a grimace every time he gets a note wrong. While writing it, he thought of waltzing flowers and spring and his mother. Now, the song feels more reminiscent of a storm, and he thunders his way through it.

Shirabu stops halfway through.

Kawanishi claps his hands softly, walking over to him to rest his elbow on the piano. “Never heard that one before,” he says.

Shirabu he rubs his fingers distractedly. “I wrote it myself.”

Kawanishi whistles, low and sharp. “It was really good.”

Shirabu laughs, tossing his hair out of his face. “Actually, I wrote it when I was fourteen.”

Kawanishi’s eyes widen slightly. It takes a lot to shake his composure, and Shirabu revels in that one second. “Incredible,” he says without a hint of sarcasm. He hums thoughtfully. “Why _did_ you stop playing? Even now, you’re still good. Rusty, but good.”

Shirabu’s fingers twitch, and his mouth tightens. “Long story short, I kind of lost interest,” he says, getting up sharply. “It’s almost opening time. We should get ready.”

Kawanishi eyes him carefully. He shrugs languidly, making his way to the light switches. “By the way, apparently Goshiki’s coming in today. He’s not sick anymore.”

“ _Joy_.” Shirabu rolls his eyes, tying up his apron. “At least this day can’t get any worse.”

 

* * *

 

It gets worse. Three spilled coffees, a messed-up order, and a chipped mug later, and he’s ready to throw in the towel.

“I’m quitting,” Shirabu says.

“You say that every day, but you’re still here,” Kawanishi says, but he offers him a tiny smile and a steaming paper cup. “Here’s your black coffee from hell.”

“It pays the bills,” Shirabu grumbles, but he takes the cup with a whispered _thank you,_ “you know that.”

Kawanishi hums. “How was that paper you were working on, by the way?”

“I finished it last night.”

“I thought it was due next week?”

“Exactly.”

“Nerd,” Kawanishi says fondly.

“Shirabu-san!” Goshiki comes bounding out of nowhere, as if he wasn’t just hacking out a lung yesterday. “I’m finished with mopping up the spills! Is there anything else I can do?”

Shirabu stares. Kawanishi snickers. “Thanks, Goshiki, but it’s alright. We’ll probably be getting more customers soon, so we need you behind the counter with us.”

“Okay!” Goshiki drums his fingers eagerly on the counter. “Is Ushijima-san coming to play today?”

“If Tendou doesn’t hold him back,” Shirabu mutters under his breath.

“He should be here in a few minutes.”

“Again, if Tendou doesn’t hold him back.”

“He should be here at some point today,” Kawanishi amends, eyes flickering to the door just as it opens. “Oh, there he is.”

Shirabu watches Ushijima walk in, as stoic and imposing as ever, and turns to see Goshiki go starry-eyed. “Good morning,” he says, nodding slightly as he approaches them. “I apologize if I was slightly late. I had something to do.”

“Like Tendou-san,” Kawanishi mutters.

“It’s fine, Ushijima-san. You’re right on time.” Shirabu says, discreetly kicking Kawanishi’s ankle. “You’re good to go. Thank you for coming.”

“It’s always a pleasure.”

Shirabu tries not to stare—he’s still on his shift, after all—but Ushijima has this strange way of drawing people’s attention like moths to light. He thinks back to all the performances he’s had when he was younger, and how insignificant all that experience seems in the light of raw talent. Shirabu rubs his fingers absently, entranced.

“Incredible, right?” Goshiki whispers loudly.

Shirabu’s fingers twitch. “Right.”

 

* * *

 

Shirabu tries to shake off the music playing in the background, handing a customer his order with shaky hands. The door opens, and he turns to see a familiar head of dip-dyed hair enter the shop.

Semi has been coming to the shop to play every Monday and Thursday. It’s Tuesday. That’s not routine, and Shirabu likes his routines. He feels unsettled enough as is.

Kawanishi is busy preparing the other orders, and Goshiki is doing his job charging the customers. Shirabu bites his lip, all too aware of Semi standing at the back of the line. One by one, they come and go, and he’s face-to-face with him.

“Semi-san,” he says, heart in his throat. He clasps his hands together. “What can I get you?”

“An espresso, thanks,” Semi says absently, eyes flickering to Ushijima, who’s still towering over the piano. Shirabu tries not to flinch at every note plucked, sure and resonating.

“To go?”

Semi shakes his head. Shirabu nods, twisting a strand of hair around his finger. He serves him like every customer. He gives him drink and sees him off, and if he watches him as he settles onto a table for two by the windows, no one has to know.

He shakes his head and finished up the last of the orders. The afternoon light starts to flood into the room, and a quick glance at the windows shows him how it seems to set Semi’s hair aglow. He seems to be hunched over something, writing. Shirabu shrugs it off and starts cleaning to calm himself. People drop by to study all the time. It’s strange to see Semi use his hands for anything but strumming his guitar. Shirabu reminds himself that he barely knows him.

“Shirabu-san!”

He jolts back into reality, dropping the cleaning rag in surprise. Goshiki apologizes profusely and picks it up for him. He sighs wearily, taking it from him with a half-hearted thanks. “Hey, Goshiki. What’s going on?”

Goshiki tilts his head. “Are you dating the guy over there with the really cool hair? I kinda forgot his name, but...oh, right! Semi-san! Are you dating Semi-san?”

“Keep your voice down,” Shirabu says hurriedly, shaking his head. “And no, God, no. Why would you even think that?”

Goshiki bites his lip, cheeks flushing. “Sorry!” he squeaks. “I really didn’t mean to assume anything. It’s just — he’s been looking at you? A lot? So I just wondered?”

Shirabu stares.

“Sorry!” he says again.

Shirabu pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stop apologizing. It’s alright.” He hesitates, then casts a quick glance to the table by the windows. _Just to prove him wrong,_ Shirabu tells himself, but to his surprise, Semi is looking right back at him.

They both look away. Shirabu runs through the hundreds of explanations with no romantic connotations for this.

“If you aren’t dating,” Goshiki says, very helpfully, “then maybe he _wants_ you to be.”

“ _Or_ maybe he wants a refill, or some more sugar for his coffee, or…something.” Shirabu runs his fingers through his hair. Never before has he wanted to douse himself in freshly made coffee so badly.

“Should I go ask?”

Shirabu gets flashbacks of wasted drinks and broken mugs, and he shakes his head hurriedly. “No, no, it’s fine, I’ll go ask. Watch the register for me, and make sure Taichi doesn’t sneak off to sleep on the coffee bean bags or something.”

“Yes, Shirabu-san!”

Shirabh waves him off, heading over to Semi’s table, all while contemplating his life choices. It’s a small table with two chairs, one unoccupied, and a tiny glass vase with a fake flower resting inside. He reluctantly moves his gaze to Semi, who says, “Hey. Uh, can I help you with anything?”

“That’s my line,” he says, brushing his fringe out of his face. “Can I get you anything? A refill, some more sugar?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Semi says, licking his lips. Shirabu’s eyes move to his hands, clutched tightly to a pen. His arm covers up a piece of tissue paper, but Shirabu catches hints of a messy scrawl underneath. Semi’s arm shifts, and Shirabu mentally scolds himself. _It’s none of your business,_ he reminds himself, _at all._ “By the way, you were right. About the butter and the cocoa powder. I managed to drink instant coffee without choking, for once.”

He shrugs. “You’re welcome, I guess.” His eyes wander to the napkin again. “Maybe I should get you proper paper,” he says, before he can even stop to think of his words. “Writing on napkins is plain inconvenient.”

Semi chuckles, hair falling over his face as he glances down briefly, his eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. “It’s fine, I’m just trying to finish up this song I’m writing.”

“You haven’t played any of your original music in a while,” Shirabu blurts out, then promptly starts to wonder where the hell his mental filter has gone.

“Oh, you noticed,” Semi says, with a small, pleased smile that hints at his teeth.

“I work here,” he points out. “I listen to you play, like, thrice a week.”

Semi shrugs. “I just never thought you really payed attention, I guess,” he says, ruffling his hair. “Anyway, I just kind of slipped into a writing slump. I’ll figure something out.”

Shirabu raises an eyebrow, because it doesn’t sound like he believes what he’s saying at all. Only now does he see the bags under his eyes. “Do you play any other instruments?”

He jolts. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I can play the drums. Piano, too, even though I’m pretty shitty at it.”

“There’s your answer,” Shirabu says. “Try writing something on the piano, shitty or not. Give it lyrics. Call it a day, and start again. Then you can write a companion piece on your guitar, or something like that.” His mouth twists, and he glances away. “Or something.”

When he looks back, he sees Semi fiddling with the pen in his hands and a small, distracted smile on his face. “That’s pretty decent advice,” he says, smile growing wider as he glances up to meet his eyes. “Thanks, Shirabu.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, shrugging lightly. “If that’s all, I have a shift to get back to.”

Semi’s smile turns sheepish. “Right, sorry, didn’t mean to hold you back.”

Shirabu just shrugs again and heads back to the counter to find Goshiki stacking the sugar packets into a wobbly tower. However, when he spots him, his eyes grow wide and he slams his hands onto the table. His tower collapses, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Do you want to date him, too, now?”

“Where’s Taichi?” Shirabu says, ignoring him and the warmth spreading down his neck. He glances around, but he sees no sign of him.

Goshiki smiles sheepishly, tugging on his starchy uniform collar. “I may have forgotten to watch over him.”

Shirabu sighs.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Semi comes in early in the morning, when Kawanishi is half-asleep on the counter, and Goshiki’s chatter is the only noise in the mostly empty café.

“Good morning, Semi-san.” Shirabu pokes Kawanishi’s arm, before turning up to look at Semi. “You’re here early,” he says.

He laughs and ruffles his hair. “I guess. Just wanted to drop by real quick before my classes start.”

“Fair enough,” Shirabu says absently, shoving Kawanishi back into his place by the coffee machines. “What can I get you?”

“An espresso and a glazed donut, thanks.”

Kawanishi gets to work on his coffee, still yawning, while he ducks down behind the display case to pick out one of the donuts. Semi leans on the counter. “Thanks, by the way,” he says.

“I’m just doing my job. I get paid for this.”

Semi laughs. “I meant for yesterday. Your advice was pretty good.”

“Oh,” he grabs the coffee from Kawanishi and places everything on a tray, along with the honey-glazed donut he picked out. “It’s not a big deal.”

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s a pretty big deal. Hey, by the way, do _you_ play any instruments?”

Shirabu goes still for second, before he shakes his hands and clasps them behind his back. “I don’t, not really,” he says, pushing the tray towards him. “Here, have a nice day.”

Semi chuckles, tilting his head slightly, eyes going gilded in the sunlight. “You don’t particularly sound like you mean that.”

He shrugs. “It’s protocol.”

He laughs again, picking up his tray and heading towards the same table as yesterday. Shirabu’s eyes wander around the store, bathed in amber light. Everything is quiet until Goshiki ducks back under the counter. “Shirabu-san!” he yells, loud enough to startle Kawanishi, who’s already begun to doze off again. “I’m finished with the mopping, is there anything else I can do?”

He grimaces. “Maybe lower your voice a little, it’s still early and you’ll disturb the customers.”

Goshiki’s eyes flicker to the few people in the shop, then to Semi, who’s drinking his coffee. Shirabu sighs. “We’re not dating,” he says.

“You said that yesterday, so I know!”

“Good,” Shirabu says. “That’s... good.”

 

* * *

 

Semi comes rushing out of the shop around half an hour later, cursing under his breath about being late. Shirabu bites his lip, trying not to laugh, and heads over to clean the table he used to occupy.

He stacks the crumb-covered plate and the empty cup onto the tray, but he stops when he notices paper still lying on the table. He picks then up, planning on just throwing them away if they’re not lecture notes, until he realizes what they are. His fingers twitch.

Sheet music.

 

* * *

 

Shirabu’s Thursday shift is in the afternoon, right after his classes, and he arrives just in time to see Semi settling himself onstage.

The café is, as always, laden with the scent of coffee, but there’s anticipation in the air, too, when Semi takes the mic and says, “I’ve been working on a new song. I only started two days ago, but I wanted to try it out.”

Kawanishi doesn’t work on Thursdays, or else he would probably be here with his lazy smirk and a quip about Shirabu having a new song to hum under his breath. Goshiki isn’t around, either. He silently thanks the heavens for this.

Reon, the other person working this shift with him, smiles warmly. “This ought to be interesting. Eita always has a way with his lyrics.”

“I suppose so,” Shirabu says. Unfortunately, more customers start to trickle in, and he busies himself with taking their orders. He catches the occasional snippet of lyrics in between the chatter and the hum of coffee machines, already playing the accompanying piano piece in his head while he does his best to listen. The song feels lacking without it.

He’s suddenly even more thankful that Kawanishi doesn’t run this shift with him. He’d probably figure out about how Shirabu stayed up trying to learn the song Semi wrote. It was a tad messy, but he re-wrote all the parts he didn’t like. He’s not proud of this.

Still, he can’t help but wonder what they would sound like together.

 _“And I know you play no instruments, but you still know just how to play my heartstrings,”_ Semi breathes, wrapping up the song with a smile. Everybody starts to applaud, and Shirabu shakes his head, smiling as he joins them in clapping.

 

* * *

 

He sees Semi in a nearby park the next day.

He’s playing the same song as yesterday, but he stops when he sees Shirabu walking past to tap on the empty spot next to him on the bench. Shirabu hesitates, but Semi and smiles and he gives in, taking a seat. He expects Semi to ask him about the sheet music he left behind a few days ago, but he doesn’t. “No work today?” Semi asks, instead.

“Sure I do. I just didn’t feel like coming in,” he says sarcastically.

Semi laughs in surprise. “So you do have a sense of humour, after all.”

He shrugs awkwardly, brushing his hair out of his face. “So what are _you_ doing?”

Semi sighs, strumming randomly on his guitar in frustration. “Nothing much. It feels like it’s missing something,” he admits. “The song, I mean.”

He hesitates, thinking about what to say. He hears a voice in his head — that sounds suspiciously like Kawanishi — say _to hell with planning, just this once_. And so he swallows and says, “I never got to hear it properly.”

Semi’s lips twitch. “If you want me to play it, all you have to do is ask.”

Shirabu huffs, crossing his legs at the ankles. “Fine, then. Can you play the song for me? What’s it even called?”

“Still figuring that out, to be honest, but I have a working title, at least.” Semi takes a deep breath, adjusting his guitar. “Anyway, this is _Heartstrings_.”

He starts strumming, and Shirabu leans back. The blades of grass seem to be swaying along, and the branches rustle along to the rhythm. He smiles a little when it’s done, clapping his hands together softly.

Semi grins and bows. “Thoughts?”

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Shirabu says, fidgeting with his fingers. “You’ve never written a love song before. At least, I’ve never heard you play one.”

“Well,” Semi says slowly, “I didn’t really know where to start, back then.”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t question further, reminding himself that they’re not exactly friends and it’s none of his business at all. “It was good,” he says. “You were right about it missing something, though.”

Semi runs his fingers through his hair. “Right? And I can’t seem to put my finger on it.”

Shirabu bites his lip. “Semi-san,” he says. “The other day, you left some sheet music behind in the store.”

Semi’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit, I probably did? I have a few copies, but that probably explains why I was missing one…”

He hesitates some more before shaking his head and pulling out his phone. “You were right when you said your piano skills are shitty.”

“Hey!”

“I revised it a little. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I thought you said that you don’t play any instruments.”

“I said I don’t, not that I can’t. I haven’t played the piano seriously in years, anyway,” Shirabu says, tapping on the piano app on his phone. “Would you like me to play my version for you?”

“Of course,” Semi says, eyes gleaming. Shirabu’s heart stutters, but he swallows. He’s played in front of larger audiences before.

And so he plays.

It really has been a while, and an app on his phone is no match for the weight of ivory keys under his fingers, but it does the trick. Semi claps when he’s done, and his smile is brighter than any prize he’s won during competitions. Perhaps just as priceless, if not more.

“You’re still really good.”

Shirabu shrugs. He messed up more than once and his fingers didn’t move the way he wanted them to, but Semi didn’t seem to notice at all. “I guess.”

“Hey, what’s your favorite color?”

Shirabu raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Mine is violet.”

“Uh, same here?”

“Cool. Okay, what’s your favorite animal?”

“What is this, twenty questions?”

“Mine are swans. Dogs are also great.”

Shirabu sighs. “Rabbits, I guess.”

Semi smiles in pleasant surprise. “That’s really cute.”

He bristles, face flushing hot. “Shut up, it’s not. What’s with all the questions, anyway?”

Semi pulls out his phone. “I was gonna ask you for your number so you could send me the chords, but it didn’t seem right when I didn’t even know your favorite color.”

Shirabu bites back a laugh, but a small smile slips past, anyway. “It doesn’t really matter, but whatever. Here, just put your number in my phone and I’ll send them to you.”

“I could literally just steal your phone right now.”

“Try.”

“Was that a threat?”

Shirabu just shrugs. “Take it however you want,” he says, and Semi just laighs and hands him his phone back. “I gotta be going, but I’ll text you the chords later.”

“Thanks, Shirabu.”

“Oh, and before I go, can _I_ ask _you_ a question?”

“Sure, go for it.”

“What’s your favorite song? I’ll play it for you sometime.”

“If you want to play something, then I don’t mind. Anything,” Semi says, eyes softening. “Anything you want.”

 

* * *

 

Shirabu sets up the piano alone the next day.

He plays an old song he dreamed up when he was fourteen, even though his fingers ache. It makes him think of a meadow, now, instead of the storm wrecking through it. At least he’s doing something write, even if his fingers still tend to stumble.

He smiles sadly. His mother loved this piece.

The door pushes open, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. “ _Shit,”_  he breathes. The café isn’t open, yet. He must’ve left the door unlocked, and the lights are already on. He gets up to tell the customer just this, until he meets a familiar pair of coffee-colored eyes.

“Semi-san? You know we don’t really open until seven.”

“I know. Sorry,” Semi says, scratching his neck. “I just kinda got drawn to the music. Was that that you? Were you the one playing?”

Shirabu shrugs. “Yeah. I was just testing out the sound.”

“It was lovely,” Semi says. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“Uh, thank you.” He bites his lip and scratches his cheek. “I wrote it when I was younger.”

Semi’s eyes light up. “Really? No way.”

“I wouldn’t lie. Do you want me to play it again?”

Semi smiles. “I’d love that.”

Shirabu has long since given up, like his fingers and his mother, but now, he breathes, holds his broken fingers to the keys, and begins.

 

* * *

 

“You were right,” Shirabu says to Kawanishi much later in the day. “I hate you and you were right.”

Kawanishi laughs. “I’m always right, Kenjirou. When are you going to learn that?”

Shirabu rolls his eyes and goes back to listening to Ushijima play. He’s no longer envious of his ability, and he’s not quite wistful, either. He’ll find his way back to loving the instrument, one note at a time.

Kawanishi keeps prodding, even as they serve the customers. “Was Goshiki right, too, then?”

“What?”

“About you and Semi. I heard you guys, you know.”

“I heard my name!” Goshiki yells. “Does that mean you’re dating Semi-san, now?”

“No one said anything at all about dating.”

“Do you _want_ to date him, then?”

Shirabu purses his lips and doesn’t answer.

 

* * *

 

Monday comes along in all of it’s monotonous glory. Goshiki is charging some of the customers. Kawanishi is hiding from his responsibilities behind the sparkling pastry display, rearranging the donuts in neat little rows. Shirabu is about to tell him that he’s done enough sorting, thank you, when the door opens.

Kawanishi perks up, popping up from behind the display case. “Is it Yamagata-san?”

Shirabu sighs tiredly. “Yes, it’s Yamagata-san.”

“Hi, good morning!” Goshiki says cheerily.

“Hey, guys,” he says, grinning widely. “Semi’s busy drowning in work, so I hope you don’t mind that it’s just me today.”

“I don’t,” Kawanishi says, before turning to smile knowingly at Shirabu. “I don’t know if the others share the sentiment, though.”

Shirabu rolls his eyes and kicks his ankle. “It’s no problem. It would’ve been better if you called earlier, but it’s not a big deal.”

Yamagata just nods. “Sorry, I’ll do that next time.”

“I’ll help you set up,” Kawanishi says.

“Not so fast,” Shirabu says. “Stop trying to skip out on work. You’re the only barista we have right now. I’ll go.”

Kawanishi frowns.

Yamagata laughs lightly, waving at Kawanishi and promising to play him his favorite songs instead. Shirabu waits for him to finish talking to Kawanishi and Goshiki, and then they head over to the stage. “Are you worried about Eita?”

Shirabu raises his eyebrows. “No. What makes you think that?”

He winks and taps his nose. “Just a hunch. ’Sides, he’s been talking about you a lot. I heard that you two wrote a duet of sorts. Eita let me listen to his half. It’s really cool.”

Shirabu shakes his head. “I just polished off the piano piece. He really is shitty at it.”

He shrugs. “He only really uses the piano whenever he wants to write something sappy.”

“Did he get himself a date or something, then?” Shirabu asks absently, adjusting the height of the microphone stand.

Yamagata smiles knowingly. “No, but he got to know you.”

 

* * *

 

Shirabu practices their song as often as he can, from using his phone to borrowing a friend’s piano. Sometimes Semi comes along during his shifts and he spares a few minutes to discuss the lyrics. Sometimes Semi picks him up after his shift to practice a little. Sometimes Semi just picks him up for the hell of it and they eat cheap ramen and discuss whether or not cheat g major chord sounds just as good as the real one. He starts coming into the café more often.

Goshiki asks him every day if they’re dating yet. Shirabu finds himself hoping that he can answer with a _yes_ , one day.

His fingers still hurt like hell if he winds up playing for too long, and he gets frustrated at his lack of flexibility, but he’s playing, and he’s _free._ He ignores his fingers and lets his mother’s ghost glide in between each note he plays. Everything aches whenever he thinks of her, but he abandoned her the day he abandoned playing, and he wants nothing more than to make up for that.

And so when Semi asks him to perform with him on Monday many weeks later, he says yes.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t be so nervous,” Semi says. “I’m sure you’ve had larger, tougher crowds when you were younger.”

“Yeah, but I was good, back then. My fingers can’t really move like they used to.”

“You sound like an old man,” Semi jokes.

“Shut up,” Shirabu says, rubbing his index finger at the second knuckle. “You know about my whole hand injury thing. I used to think volleyball was harmless.”

Semi’s teasing smile subdues into something softer around the corners of his mouth. He looks contemplative. Shirabu raises an eyebrow at him, and he says, “Just thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

Semi rolls his eyes. “Brat,” he says fondly, flicking his forehead. Shirabu slaps his arm. “It just never seemed like you to give up on something you love just like that, I guess.”

He shrugs, still fidgeting with his hands. “That’s a story for another day,” he says. He thinks of his mother’s smile and shakes his head, offering him a tiny smile of his own. “You need to make me laugh at least twenty-five more times before you can unlock my tragic backstory.”

Semi laughs, hair falling over his face in a way that makes his heart quicken dangerously, pounding in his chest like a drum. “Tough challenge, but fair enough,” he says. Semi swallows, licking his lips, before finally saying, “You know, the song, I... I wrote it for you. I want to— ”

Shirabu shakes his head, but he’s pressing his hands to hide his giddy laughter. He’s not a high schooler anymore, _goddamit._  “Later,” he says, smiling gently. “When we’re done with this performance, you can ask me properly.

“Right,” Semi says, grinning at him. “For now, we have a show to run.”

And when Semi presses his lips to the microphone and says, “This is a little thing I—well, we, actually—wrote. It’s something called ‘Heartstrings’ _,_  and we hope it tugs at yours. I’ve never been the most romantic person, but what’s a wannabe musician who hasn’t written a love song, right?”

This earns him scattered laughter and chuckles. Shirabu rolls his eyes at him. Semi just grins at his blush.

“One, two, three,” he whispers.

Shirabu smiles, presses his fingers to the ivory keys, and starts to play.


End file.
